


however improbable

by shyberius



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alana is Lestrade, Angst?, Attempted Murder, Car Chase, Connor is Sherlock Holmes, Drugs, Evan Hansen - Freeform, Evan is John Watson, Fluff, Jared is Moriarty, Kissing, Larry is Mike Stanford, M/M, Mad Science, Motorcycle Chase, Murder, No prior knowledge of Sherlock required, PTSD, Romance, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock AU, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Treebros, Warning for mentions of nightmares and trauma, Weed, Zoe is Mycroft Holmes, connor Murphy - Freeform, dear evan hansen - Freeform, do not try this at home, flatmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-08-06 01:36:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16378904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyberius/pseuds/shyberius
Summary: Evan Hansen, an army doctor who has just returned from military service and still has vivid nightmares, goes in search of a flatmate.This pursuit inevitably leads him to the mysterious and enigmatic Connor Murphy, consulting detective and possibly the worst flatmate in London.If Evan wanted an adventure, then by all means he'll get one.





	1. Who'd Want Me for a Flatmate?

**Author's Note:**

> Connor simply turned back to his scientific apparatus as if nothing had occurred. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "I don't mind that you wake up at all hours with nightmares. As long as you don't mind that I can go without speaking for days on end and have a rather fixed smoking habit. Not to mention that I sometimes play my violin in the early hours of the morning."
> 
> Evan's grip around his walking stick tightened. "W-why...?"
> 
> Connor turned to him as if it were obvious. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you think?"
> 
> *
> 
> Welcome to the Dear Evan Hansen Sherlock au that nobody asked for but I am giving to the world anyway! In which:
> 
> Evan is John  
> Connor is Sherlock  
> Zoe is Mycroft  
> Jared is Moriarty, and  
> Alana is Lestrade
> 
> It makes sense in my head.

Evan woke in a cold sweat.

The gunfire was still falling around him like rain. No: not rain. Blood. The blood was still trickling out of his leg and soaking his boots. He could hear them coming for him, so many of them, legions and legions -

But it wasn't gunfire; it was just the typical London downpour pattering on his window. No blood, either; just sweat. Evan wasn't there anymore, he was here, in London, in his normal bed and his normal room and his normal -

It was morning. Evan reached for the alarm, his hand shaking. Seven a.m. Like yesterday, and the day before that.

He got up and got dressed. It was more difficult than it had been before: every time he stretched, a tremor of pain lanced up his leg. But he managed to haul himself out of the flat and to therapy.

At therapy, Dr. Sherman asked him how the blog was going. Good, Evan said. Dr. Sherman reminded him that this blog would help him to come to terms with what had happened to him. Help him to express his feelings. _Dear Evan Hansen..._

After therapy, Evan decided to forgo the usual trudge back to the flat and take a short walk instead. Green Park was beautiful in the autumn, all the tourists and children lit up by the late afternoon sun.

A voice floated towards him on the air. "Evan! Hey!"

Evan froze in his footsteps. He leaned cautiously on his walking stick, looking around for any familiar faces.

Then he saw him: an old friend on his mother's. Larry? Barry? He couldn't remember.

"Over here!" Larry-or-Barry, who was sitting comfortably on a park bench, waved Evan over.

Evan managed a drained smile as he limped over to the bench. "Hello," he said curtly.

"Evan! Take a seat." Evan took a seat. "Back so soon?" Larry asked, beaming. (Larry: that was his name. Larry Murphy. From Evan's memories of him, he was a rich man who did nothing.)

"I...I got shot." Said Evan pointedly, gesturing vaguely to his leg. Which hurt, as it always did when Evan was in a panic-inducing situation. Which was more often than he would have liked.

Larry frowned sympathetically. "Sorry to hear that. What are you going to do now?"

"Get-get better, I guess?" Evan clenched his teeth, wishing this conversation would be over.

"But in London? You won't be living here for long on an army pension, will you?" Larry pointed out. Ah, yes, Larry Murphy who liked to remind everybody that he was more than comfortably rich. The entire world had to know that he, Larry Murphy, owned an Edwardian terrace in Mayfair.

"I don't...suppose so."

"Well, you could always share a place, now, couldn't you?" Mused Larry.

At the mention of share, the hairs on the back of Evan's neck stood up. Because who would want to share a flat with him? He was a mess: he couldn't even talk to the pizza delivery man when he knocked on the door, he wore the same pairs of socks for days on end, sometimes he burst into tears at the mere thought of going outside...the list went on. "Who would w-want to share a flat with me?"

Larry titled his head and stared at Evan, hard, as if he were trying to read his mind. "Funny. You're the second person who's said that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

*

"Connor. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

The lab looked like a small bomb had hit it - every surface was littered with test tubes and other scientific apparatus. Every object, thought Evan, was probably a safety hazard in more ways than one.

The only other man in the lab, who must have been Connor, didn't look up from his experiment, nor did he acknowledge Larry's or Evan's presence. "Hello, dad." His voice was wary. "Can I borrow your phone?"

It was remarkable to Evan just how nonchalant this Connor already was. Even more remarkable to him, though, was his appearance - shoulder-length dark hair, pearly white skin, high cheekbones. He almost looked inhuman.

"You will most certainly not borrow my phone," retorted Larry, as if it were usual for Connor to just ignore guests. "You know full well what happened last time I said yes to that."

"It wasn't my fault it set itself on fire," muttered Connor under his breath, continuing to pour an unidentifiable liquid into a test tube.

Evan stepped forward unsteadily, leaning on his walking stick for support. "You can...you can borrow my phone. If you want."

Connor looked over at Evan, clearly having only just noticed him. His brows furrowed, as if he wasn't sure whether to take him seriously. "Thank you."

Hoping silently that his hands weren't sweating, Evan handed Connor his phone. Connor typed out a few texts on it with extraordinary speed, handing it back wordlessly.

"H-how did you...?" Evan stared at the screen, trying to fathom how Connor had got into his phone when he'd set a specific password so that no one would be able to -

"Simple," said Connor, without taking his eyes off the experiment on the table in front of him. "You're wearing a cardigan from Macy's - no one would buy a cardigan like that for themselves. So clearly someone else bought it for you, someone who cares about you and wants to make sure you stay warm. Someone like your mother. And not only does your mother buy your clothes, but she hands down her phone to you as well. The letters inscribed on the case read 'Heidi Hansen'. Therefore your password is 'Heidi'."

Evan stood there, stunned. Larry gave him a sideways looks as if to say, _He's always like this_.

"I just needed to send a few texts," Connor continued. "So thank you for letting me borrow it."

Evan still had no words. What was there that he could say? Everything that Connor had just deduced was true to the last word, and something about that deeply unnerved him.

Connor turned round and began rummaging in the set of drawers behind the desk. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked matter-of-factedly.

"M-me?"

"No, my father," Connor snapped sarcastically. Larry shrugged at Evan, indicating that he had no part in this conversation. "Of course I'm asking you."

"Afghanistan." Evan regurgitated the word quickly, afraid of the memories that the word would evoke. "But-but how did you...?"

Connor retrieved what he wanted from the drawer - a set of glass beakers, the contents of which Evan tried not to examine too closely - and set them down on the desk. "Simple," he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "It's obvious that you've just returned from military service - why else would my father not have told me about you before? Then there's your leg: a battle injury, but more psychological than physical, which is apparent from the way you flinch when I move my hands. And there's a tan line on your wrist," he gestured vaguely to Evan's arms, "which suggests that you've been somewhere warm. The only warm conflict zones I can think of are Afghanistan and Iraq."

Again, Evan was stunned. But Connor simply turned back to his scientific apparatus as if nothing had occurred. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "I don't mind that you wake up at all hours with nightmares. As long as you don't mind that I can go without speaking for days on end and have a rather fixed smoking habit. Not to mention that I sometimes play my violin in the early hours of the morning."

Evan's grip around his walking stick tightened. "W-why...?"

Connor turned to him as if it were obvious. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you think?"

"But how did you - " Evan stammered. How could a stranger know that he had nightmares? "How did you know that I was - "

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Thus indicating that it really _wasn't_ obvious. But Connor continued regardless. "I told my father," he nodded at Larry, "that no one would want to live with me. He shows up less than an hour later with someone my age who's just returned from military service: a potential flatmate. It's not a huge leap, really." With that, he took the top off of a beaker and methodically transferred the contents (which Evan was still trying to ignore) into a fresh test tube.

Evan opened his mouth to respond (with what, he didn't know), but Connor - this enigma of a man, this complete mystery he'd only just met but would surely never forget - beat him to it. "There's a flat I've been looking at. 221b Baker Street. We can look at it tomorrow."

Larry raised his eyebrows at Evan knowingly. Evan just shook his head despairingly. "But..." He burst out in frustration. "We don't even know each other's names! How-how can we - "

Connor raised a hand, and Evan immediately fell silent. His eyes - clear, cold blue with a hint of brown, Evan noticed - shone with all the thoughts that were behind them. He'd cleared up his scientific apparatus in a motion to leave, and, sure enough, he strode towards the open door. "Connor Murphy. Meet me at 221b Baker Street at four o'clock."

With a flick of his trench coat, Connor swept out of the room, leaving Evan wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! Do leave a comment if you'd like me to continue this. Also, if you want to get in touch and chat about fandoms/writing/the intricate workings of the universe, my tumblr is @shyberiuswrites.
> 
> The title is taken from the quote from none other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."


	2. London Descending into Criminal Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely comments and for waiting so patiently for the next chapter! I'm sorry it's been such a long time coming - I've been busy with applying to university (eek), so unfortunately my writing's had to come second. Enjoy!
> 
> WARNING for mild references to suicide and anxiety disorder.

"There are two bedrooms," said the landlady, her eyes glinting suggestively. "If you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms," snapped Connor.

Evan's face turned scarlet. The landlady just smiled secretly, as if to say, _That's what they all say._

The flat, Evan thought, was perfect for two people, if not a little outdated in décor. Not that appearance was his priority - comfort was all that mattered to him. The walls were covered with patterns from the sixties, the kitchen and living room were spacious, and two comfy-looking armchairs stood facing each other by the window. He could imagine this as his backdrop.

Evan sank down into one of the armchairs gratefully, wincing as his leg twinged again.

"I know exactly how you feel," the landlady lamented. "I've got a bad hip, you know."

"Oh, it's...it's fine," muttered Evan, gazing out of the window to the grey sky on the other side.

"It's psychosomatic. I told you," came a voice from the kitchen. Connor.

*

It wasn't until the third suicide that Alana, a senior Police Inspector with too much to do and not enough time, knew that she had to call on his help. She'd spent the whole time denying that she needed him - after all, he was rude, antisocial, and, in her opinion, just a bit over the edge of sane - but now she'd have to put aside her pride. The fact was inevitable: without Connor Murphy, London would descend into criminal chaos.

The first suicide had been a teenage boy. Drug overdose in the local sports centre.

The second had been a businesswoman. Another drug overdose in the financial district.

The third had been a recently retired man. Again, drug overdose, near the bank of the Thames.

But they weren't suicides: she was sure of it. They were murders. And, somehow, they were linked. But how?

Alana reshuffled her numerous papers with a weighty sigh and picked up her phone. Her finger hovered over the speed dial.

Because anyone who thought a crime was unsolvable clearly hadn't met Connor Murphy yet.

*

Evan still couldn't believe that he'd managed to cobble together some semblance of normal with this man. It had been two weeks since they'd moved in together, and he knew approximately as much about Connor as he had when they'd first met, which was nothing. Hell, he didn't even know what Connor did to afford this flat.

Connor certainly practised all the habits he'd warned him about. On more than two nights so far, Evan had been woken up by the eerie bowing of a violin, it's ethereal, melancholy tune piercing through the thin mortar of his bedroom wall. It was funny: he found that it soothed him back to sleep after his nightmares. Nightmares that were growing fewer and further between.

Connor would also go for remarkable lengths of time without talking to Evan or even acknowledging him. He'd just set up camp on the sofa and lie there with his hands clasped together and his eyes closed, whether deep in thought or just high, Evan had yet to discover. But Evan didn't mind this - in fact, he secretly enjoyed not being obliged to speak to his flatmate. It gave him one less thing to bite his nails over.

One of Connor's less charming habits, to put it charitably, was the drugs. Without intending to, Evan was learning to identify the difference between cheap and expensive weed, and the fact that he had this knowledge bothered him.

There was also the severed head in the freezer. But Evan had no desire to recount that event to the readership.

So apart from the drugs and the severed head, Evan was beginning to settle into his new life in 221b Baker Street. He'd go to therapy. He'd type up a new blog post about his intriguing flatmate. Then he'd settle down in his armchair (which he had officially marked as his own with a sizeable tea stain on the left arm) and either listen to Connor's violin or Connor's drugged silence.

Today was one such day, except what distinguished it from the other days was the Connor was neither playing the violin nor smoking drugs.

Evan was reading the newspaper (nothing eventful, except for the dubious headline _Triple Suicide in The City_ ) when Connor burst into the room like a badly timed storm, his scarf half on and his coat streaming behind him. "Another murder!" He cried with a good deal more joy than should ever be equated with murder.

Evan set down his newspaper hastily, asking, "A-another...?", because he hadn't been aware of any murder prior to today.

Connor strode up to Evan's armchair and grabbed the newspaper, waving the headline - _Triple Suicide in The City_ \- in his face excitedly. "Oh, these weren't suicides," he stated knowingly. "These were murders, we're sure of it, and we're one step behind the culprit."

It took Evan a great deal of time to process this new information. "Who's...who's 'we'?"

"Me," stated Connor, as if it couldn't be any more obvious, "and Alana's team."

"Alana...?"

"Beck. Inspector for the Metropolitan Police, or, as I like to put it, my client."

"...Client?"

Connor fastened his scarf and grabbed his bag from the sofa, a glint in his eye Evan had never seen before. "She couldn't solve half the crimes she does without me." Then, as an afterthought: "You're not coming?"

Evan's grip on the armchair tightened. "Coming where?"

Connor's features were sharp, his gaze on Evan piercing. "To see the body. I could always use..." he fumbled around for the right word. "An assistant of sorts."

"I c-couldn't help you!" Spluttered Evan in protest. "I mean, look at my - at my - " He gestured stupidly to his leg.

"Rubbish." Evan's walking stick suddenly appeared in Connor's hand out of nowhere. He extended it to Evan with a mock-gentlemanly flourish. "Just because you're not in the army anymore, doesn't mean you're not a soldier. You love the adventure," he flashed Evan a sharklike grin, knowing he'd got him. "Admit it."

Evan hauled himself out of the armchair grudgingly, despite feeling lighter on his feet than he had in months. "Fine. I-I'll go with you. But just this once."

"Your limp is psychosomatic, anyway," Connor quipped back.

But Evan didn't get the chance to argue, because Connor tossed the walking stick at him to quickly he almost didn't catch it. "Watch it!"

*

The inside of the cab could have been the inside of any cab in London: a vaguely smokey smell, uncomfortable seats and smudged windows to screen them from the outside world. Connor and Evan sat in silence for a few moments, until it was Evan, surprisingly, who started the conversation. It turned out Connor was as little a fan of talking as Evan was.

"How did you know all those things about me? When we - when we met?"

Connor's expression was unreadable in the faded light of the cab. "It's called the science of deduction. There was nothing I knew about you that I couldn't infer from your appearance and body language. It's simple."

"That...makes sense," admitted Evan. Then after more silence, he said, "But that doesn't explain how you knew I woke up with nightmares."

"The way your eyes darted around the room. The way your hands wouldn't settle. The way you stood with your back hunched as if you wanted to disappear. All those things connoted a history of anxiety." Connor stated this all with precise assurance.

Now the silence that followed was filled with the soft tune of the cab driver's radio (playing Wall of Glass by Liam Gallagher) and Evan's unmeasured breathing. Evan couldn't help but feel as if he'd been found out for something awful, a crime of some kind.

"Did I say something to upset you?" Asked Connor suddenly, his earlier composure cracking slightly. "I'm not good at saying things people like."

Evan shook his head, perhaps too vigorously to be convincing. "N-no. It's fine. I mean...it's true, isn't it, so why wouldn't it be? Fine, I mean." _Stop rambling, Evan, you idiot._

Connor looked out of the window, as if determined not to make eye contact. "I'm sorry. I'm not good at...talking to people."

"It's okay. And that - that makes two of us."

The cab driver stopped, and Connor handed him a tip before climbing out. Once they were on the pavement, Evan worked up the courage to ask, "What do you do really?"

Connor inclined his head at him, wearing an expression of pride mixed with duty. "I'm a consulting detective. The only one of my kind. Now, are you ready to see a body?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos and comments mean the world to me! If you're enjoying this, I'd love it if you dropped me a little comment to tell me what you think.


	3. Who's This?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! I hope you enjoy reading Connor and Evan's relationship develop.

P.I. Alana Beck greeted them at the scene of the crime with relief, which quickly turned into scepticism once she realised that Connor had brought along an unexpected partner. Evan almost tripped on the curb as he stepped out of the cab and took his position at Connor's side.

"Evening, Murphy," said Alana, because it couldn't really be classed as a good evening in the context of an unsolved murder. "Who's this?"

"Oh," Connor started, as if he'd forgotten Evan's presence already, "this is my colleague. Evan Hansen."

Scepticism still scrawled plainly across her face, Alana steadfastly stuck out her hand nonetheless. "Pleased to meet you, Mr Hansen."

Evan shook her hand hastily, muttering a "Hello" in return.

At that, Alana's attention snapped back to Connor, all business. "I'll take you into the house. He's not..." She cast another glance over at Evan, who was beginning to wish he'd stayed in his armchair at Baker Street, "Coming with us, is he?"

The blue flash of the police car parked a few feet away from them lent Connor's cheekbones a soft, eerie glow. "I insist. He is, after all, my colleague."

Alana let out a world-weary (or, more accurately, _Connor_ -weary) sigh and led them up the steps to the entrance of the town house, letting the two of them pass beneath the foreboding porch before following them inside.

The landing was cold, damp, and full what looked like an entire branch of the Metropolitan Police, all bustling around in full-body forensic suits with important jobs. Evan felt even more like an imposter than he had before.

They were handed identical forensic suits (like plastic bags, only uglier) to get into, complete with rubber gloves (as if Evan wasn't afraid to touch so much as a door handle). Then they were led up a creaking flight of stairs and into the room, in which, Evan noticed all too soon, there lay a few-hours-old corpse.

Connor bounded towards it ( _her_ , from the pink clothes) and crouched town to inspect it closely. Alana and Evan simply stood behind him, Evan wringing his hands together anxiously, Alana watching Connor do his work.

And what, exactly, was Connor's work? Evan wondered. It looked like he was just staring at nothing, scouring every inch of the body and frowning at random intervals. Finally, he stood up and brushed himself off. "Unhappily married. The life she led wasn't an honest one."

"How can you tell?" Asked Alana.

"Her wedding ring," said Connor with surety. "It's dirt on the outside, meaning she didn't care enough to clean it. And it's clean on the inside, suggesting she took it off frequently, when she slept with other men."

"That's a bold assumption to make."

"It's a correct one." Connor changed the topic quickly, already bored with the previous one. "What other clues did you find before I turned up?"

"She wrote something. There, on the floor," Alana gestured to five words messily etched into the floorboards a few feet away from the body.

" _Wrote_." Retorted Connor. "It's more like she scratched them with her bare nails."

He wasn't wrong. The nail on her right index finger, Evan noticed, was brutally chipped. The word she'd scratched into the floor was _Rache_. "Could it be short for Rachel?" He wondered. It was only when Connor glanced at him that he realised he'd said this out loud, and he felt his cheeks burn.

"Or it could simply be _Rache_ \- the German word for revenge." Added Alana.

"Don't be stupid, Alana, why would it possibly be that?" Connor shot at her. Alana took a small step backward, reproachful. "But you," he mused, looking once more at Evan, "could be right."

Evan blushed.

"It's most likely that she meant to write Rachel," Connor continued, "but died before she could finish. Whoever Rachel is must be important, if she needed to write it so desperately."

Alana reluctantly agreed, as if this was the normal pattern: Connor was right, and she was one step behind him.

Evan, on the other hand, couldn't help feeling a sense of elation at having done something to please him. Perhaps Connor had meant it when he'd said they were colleagues. This was what colleagues did: they worked together to solve a problem.

But were they working together? Or was Connor just towing Evan along into dangers he didn't even know existed yet?

*

Connor was hungry after all that hard work. So, though he'd never admit it, was Evan. Which was how, minutes after they'd left the scene of the crime (gratefully having discarded the forensic suits), the two of them found themselves in what Connor insisted was the best place to eat late.

(It was late, Evan realised with a jolt. Somehow, in all the excitement, he'd lost track of the time. He was trying his very best not to worry about how this would disrupt the sleeping pattern that he'd spent so long building for himself and that his therapist had so highly recommended.)

Evan sat with his back to the window, and Connor sat across from him looking out with a distant look on his face. The waiter seemed to know Connor - he seated them immediately as they arrived, as if Connor came here often and this were his usual spot.

Connor slid a greasy laminated menu towards Evan's side of the table. Evan snatched it up and skim read it nervously, eventually settling on the least problematic item on the menu: tomato soup. No one could mess up a tomato soup.

Once their food had arrived - Connor had order a grilled sandwich, and proceeded to eat it with a knife and fork - the obligation of conversation crept up on them again. But what was there to say? Evan couldn't talk about the body - that was too morbid. Nor could he talk about the events of the last two weeks, because Connor had been present for all of them, so nothing was knew.

Connor began talking for him. "I bet you've never been on a crime scene before. Finally, something interesting to post on your blog."

Evan's hand halted halfway to his mouth, and the spoon of soup dropped into the bowl. "H-how did you know I had a blog?"

"It's the sort of thing a therapist prescribes to people like you," Connor shrugged, unaware of the uncomfortable way _people like you_ sat in the air. "Then there's your incessant slow typing on that laptop of yours. Drives me crazy."

Evan stared down at his soup meekly. "Oh - I-I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Connor waved a hand as if to dismiss the matter entirely. "That's why I took you with me in the first place - I could tell the blog wasn't helping you, and I thought some live action might."

"Oh. That's - " _Thoughtful_. Probably the single nicest thing Connor had said to him since they'd met. "Nice. Thank you."

"And has it?"

"Has it - has it what?"

"Helped?"

"I - " Evan was surprised at the look in Connor's eyes, which held some fierce protectiveness. Somehow, he realised, in the past few weeks, Connor had grown to care for him a little. "It's too early to tell."

Connor's eyes snapped back to their usual distant look, and it was as if the protectiveness had never existed.

"You - earlier, you said that you were taking me as - as an assistant?" Evan stumbled over his words in an attempt say it. What  _it_ was, even he wasn't sure of yet. "But now you said it was to he-help me. Which one is true?"

Connor regarded him over his sandwich as if he were an interesting object in a glass bottle, another problem to be solved. He picked his words slowly. "Neither. And both. The truth is, Evan Hansen, that I think I enjoy your company. I'm not sure yet, but I think I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed - stay tuned for more characters to be introduced!


	4. Siblings Who Protect

It would have been an uneventful drive home - no talking, just comfortable silence - except Evan was beginning to learn that life was never uneventful if Connor Murphy had anything to do with it.

Whether Connor really had anything to with Evan being kidnapped is debatable, but that didn't change the fact that, the moment Evan stepped out of the café, Connor disappeared. Evan wouldn't have even believed himself if it hadn't actually happened: one moment, Connor was beside him, and the next, he was gone.

This was when, with a sickening jolt, Evan realised that he'd relied on Connor to know the way back to Baker Street. He was stranded, alone, outside a café with no name on a street he didn't recognise. And it was dark. And he was _alone_.

He felt the panic rise up with a mind of its own. His lungs burned.

Suddenly a phone rang.

Evan whipped around - it was coming from the red phone box a few feet away. Was it for him?

He took hesitant steps over to it. The hand that reached out to take the phone didn't feel like his own. He raised it to his ear shakily. "H-hello?"

The voice on the other end of the line was cold and female. "Hello, Evan. For your personal safety, we advise you stay in here until we tell you to do so."

"O-okay." Who were _they_? And how did they know his name?

Was Evan in danger?

Evan had thought that moving in with Connor would mean less danger. Less fighting. Had he been wrong about that? About him?

The voice spoke again, smooth and courteous. "Thank you for waiting. You should see a silver car on the pavement to your left."

Evan looked, and sure enough, a silver BMW gleamed on the pavement. It had just arrived.

"I would ask you to get in the car, but you actually don't have a choice. Sorry about that."

So this was it. After every near-miss, every danger he'd faced in Afghanistan, this was how Evan was going to die. From braving the battlefield to being abandoned by his flatmate and kidnapped on an unknown London side street.

The passenger door opened for him automatically. He hung up the phone, crossing the distance from the phone box to the car in what felt like hours. It was only a matter of seconds, but every step was painstaking.

He was inside the car now, in a plush leather seat, his face buffeted by air conditioning. The door slid shut behind him.

The first place he looked to was the driver's seat, to the clean-cut, terrifying woman who was looking at him instead of driving. "Interesting," she remarked in the same over polite tone she'd used over the phone.

Evan realised he'd been holding his breath for longer than was normal - he exhaled in a long, shaky drag.

"I was expecting you to be...taller." She carried on, stroking the steering wheel absentmindedly.

"Who are you?" He whispered. Terrified, as if it weren't obvious to anyone with two eyes and a basic knowledge of body language.

"Oh, me?" She said, as if it were obvious. "My name is Zoe. I run the British government." As if this were the normal way to address oneself. "And I want to know your intentions with Connor Murphy."

In the dim light, Evan still couldn't see her features in any more detail past brown hair and a smattering of freckles. If anything, the obscurity only made her seem more invincible. So who was she? And why did she care about Connor Murphy?

"I - We live together." Evan stated, staring out of the window, panicked, as she started driving them who-knew-where. Rain lashed down on the car roof, muffling his words. "That's all."

She raised an eyebrow without looking at him. The expression sent of a pang of familiarity through him, but he didn't know what it was. "I know you live together. In fact, Evan, I probably know more about you than you do." She stated this as if it were a simple, known fact. "Is that really all?"

He nodded quickly.

"You seem harmless," she said. "But I have to be careful. I wouldn't want him just living with _anyone_ , you know."

Evan quietly agreed, although he was pretty sure Connor could look after himself.

" _Why_ are you living with him?" she added, alighting on a new idea she hadn't thought of before.

"I can't...afford a flat b-by myself," he muttered, still determinedly focusing in the raindrops sprinting down the window, diverting his attention from the fact that he was being kidnapped. "And he's...he's no trouble." This was, technically, true.

To his surprised, Zoe scoffed. "No trouble? He _is_ trouble."

But, despite what she said, her expression was fiercely protective. She thought Evan wasn't looking. Whoever she was, and whatever relation she had to Connor, she was clearly fond of him, albeit grudgingly so.

Evan had no sense of how long they'd been driving, but suddenly the car stopped and Zoe parked it haphazardly on the side of the pavement. The surroundings looked familiar: towering town houses, old-fashioned street lamps...

"Are we...?"

"221b Baker Street, yes. Where did you think I was taking you?"

Had this woman kidnapped him only to take him straight home again? So far this evening, all Evan had got were questions and no answers for them. He made a move to open the door.

"Wait!" She held out a hand to stop him. He pulled back, startled. "I have a few more questions before you can leave."

Suddenly Evan realised why Zoe's face looked familiar to him: it bore subtle similarities to that of his flatmate. The straight nose. The dimpled chin. And the identical way they both raised their eyebrows sceptically. Of course - only a sibling would go to such ridiculous lengths to protect someone else.

"Is he smoking?" She asked.

Evan paused, recollecting their past two weeks together. He couldn't _lie_. "Yes. But not dangerous substances."

"He'll always smoke. As long as it's not..." She trailed off, as if remembering something she'd tried to keep out of her mind. Then she snapped out of it, returning to the matter at hand. "And how long does he go without speaking, usually?"

"The longest has been two days. But that only happened once. He can be talkative when he wants to be."

Zoe nodded sagely, as if this news weren't surprising to her. Evan didn't know when she'd taken off the stalwart-government-official identity and replaced it with worried-sister, but she'd done it at some point between kidnapping him and now. "As long as he's okay. He's got a case: something to focus on."

Evan agreed that, when he didn't have a focus, the silences were longer.

When Zoe finally let him out of the car, Evan had less of a clue of who she was that when he'd got in. But he knew this: whoever she was, she had a reason to worry about Connor.

She rolled down the window to say goodbye. "If there's any trouble, I'll know about it," she said. "And Evan? Don't trust him. I've only just met you, but I like you, and I don't want you to get hurt."

Evan didn't even have time to reply before the BMW drove away, spraying a substantial amount of rainwater onto his jumper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the introduction to Zoe! If you've watched BBC Sherlock, you'll notice that Zoe's my substitute for Mycroft. 
> 
> Please leave a comment to let me know what you think!


	5. Colleague-Friend-Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! It's been a hot minute since I've updated, but worry not! I still have big plans for this story. Enjoy this next, well-overdue instalment of DEH meets Sherlock.

Though Evan had known Connor for a while now, and therefore knew quite a bit about him, Connor still had ways of surprising him. Exhibit A: Connor, apparently, had been so lost in his own thoughts last night, that he hadn’t even noticed that Evan had literally been kidnapped on the streets. As in, _he hadn’t noticed that Evan was gone._ Instead, when Evan walked in at around 11pm soaked in rain, Connor just said, “Your tea’s cold.” That was it.

Exhibit B: This morning, Connor strolled into Evan’s bedroom wielding a bright pink suitcase. Said suitcase was so pink, in fact, that Evan couldn’t look at it for too long without it hurting his head.

Evan turned over in bed and groaned despairingly. Connor, seeming not to have picked up on his flatmate’s exasperation, said delightedly, “I’m one step closer to solving the case!” He paused. “Is that what people call a pun?”

Sometimes Evan wished that he had context before Connor did things like this. (Such as the severed head in the fridge. Whose was it? Where did it come from? Evan always had questions.)

He guessed that the only way to make this morning manageable was with a cup of coffee. It looked like he’d be doing more case-solving with Connor today, and that was never uneventful. “I’ll be up in a minute,” he murmured, flinging off the covers and sitting up with his back to Connor.

It occurred to him that Connor had never been in his bedroom before. And he didn’t know - or, at least, didn’t want to know - why that thought was making him cold all over. He was relieved, however, when he heard Connor’s footsteps - and the wheels of the suitcase - grow further and further away from him.

Sometimes living with Connor was like balancing on a knife-edge between what was acceptable and what was not.

Once Evan was ready, and a mug of coffee was firmly in his hand, he finally addressed Connor. “What does that suitcase have to do with the case?”

Connor shrugged like it was obvious. “At the crime scene, I noticed that there was a mud track on her leg. The kind of track that could only have been left by suitcase wheels. So I went looking around her apartment building…”

Evan held up a hand. “When did you go looking?”

“Oh. Last night.”

Evan frowned. Did his flatmate ever sleep?

“Anyway,” Connor continued, spreading his hands in front of him to illustrate his point, “I found this suitcase - undeniably hers - abandoned on the pavement a few feet away from the building’s entrance. _And_ …” he gestured to the suitcase, “it has a label on it. With a phone number. If we’re lucky, it’s hers.” He smiled a funny little smile to himself. “This is almost too easy.”

It took Evan a few seconds to wrap his head around this onslaught of new information. He took a sip of coffee and swilled it around his mouth.

His next question was: “When was the last time you slept?”

Connor’s brow furrowed, as if this were a minor inconvenience he hadn’t considered before. “I don’t know. Why?”

All Evan could do was sigh inwardly. Getting Connor to sleep when he didn’t want to was a near impossible task, and not one he had the energy to attempt. “Well. What are you going to - “

“We.”

“What are we going to do now?”

Connor flung himself down in his chair and pulled a Blackberry out of his trouser pocket. “We call the phone number, of course. I thought you were smart.”

And with that, Connor tossed the phone in Evan’s direction so suddenly that Evan almost didn’t catch it. It was lucky for him that the army had taught him fast reflexes. “You want me to do it?” He sat down in his chair opposite Connor, the phone clammy in his hand.

“Sure,” said Connor. “After all, you’re my colleague...friend…” His face screwed up in confusion at his own words. “ _Thing_. And as a colleague-friend-thing, it seems reasonable that you should help me with my work. Teamwork.” He said the word teamwork as if it were a very long and incomprehensible foreign word.

 _Colleague-friend-thing?_ What was Evan supposed to do with that?

Evan cautiously took up the phone and typed in the number, hoping that Connor couldn’t hear his heart beating frantically. He felt as if he were getting involved in something bigger than himself, something more dangerous than he could imagine.

As Evan finished typing, Connor continued (it really was just a stream of consciousness for him), “I’ve installed a tracking app on my phone. So, if whoever has Rachel’s phone opens our message, they automatically install it too. We’ll be able to track our killer.”

Evan didn’t understand any of it. Alas. “What shall I say?”

“Just type anything,” Connor shrugged. “As long as we can track them.”

He typed ‘hi’, then sent the text. This felt dangerous. Like an unexploded bomb that had been lying in the ground for years.

But enough about bombs. They had a killer to catch.

Evan jumped up in his seat involuntarily. “Read! It says they’ve read the text!”

Connor’s eyes widened, and he took the phone from Evan’s hand faster than he could blink. “Brilliant.”

Evan neatly blushed. “Thanks.” Connor had never complimented him before.

“No; I meant my tracking app, not you,” said Connor, not looking up from the phone. And just like that, the spell had been broken.

Evan took the silence to finish the dregs of his coffee. As soon as he set the mug down on the table, Connor leaped to his feet, holding the phone like a trophy. “The app works!”

“What - what does it say?”

Connor squinted at the phone. “It’s loading. It’s…” He trailed off. His face went white.

“Connor?” Evan stood up. He was still about a head shorter than him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t address him like an equal. “Are you - are you okay?”

Connor’s voice was deadly quiet. “They’re here.”

“Who?”

“The killer.” Connor’s voice was so steady, it scared him. “They’re here, at 221B.”

Evan was nonplussed. He probably should have felt fear, but instead (bizarrely), he only felt adrenaline. The thrill of an impending battle. _This_ was why, all those year ago, he’d signed up to the army.

He was born for this.

“Didn’t you say we had a killer to catch?” He said, in a voice decidedly un-Evan-like. “What are we waiting for?”

And with that, he threw on his coat and scarf, and tossed Connor his. Connor put them on mechanically, his face still ashen. His eyes were still locked on the phone screen. “They’re getting away,” he said. What he said next was short, sharp, like a bullet. “Go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think.


	6. Not Your Average Car Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have the second update in 24 hours. My posting schedule really is all-or-nothing, isn't it?
> 
> Also: WARNING for mild nonconsensual kissing.

The chase was a blur. Evan found himself hurtling down the stairs and out of the door in Connor’s wake, not stopping to catch his breath.

As soon as they were outside, they found the street in front of them to be...empty. Evan’s breath hitched in disbelief.

Suddenly, Connor said, “There”, and tore off in the direction of Crawford Street. Evan had just enough time to notice the tail lights of a black cab disappear round the corner.

“You think they’re in the cab?” he gasped, still running flat out.

A wave of Connor’s hand in midair served as affirmation, and they continued running until the cab was in sight. Sure enough, it didn’t stop; it carried on driving like it was being pursued.

Up until this point, the streets had been relatively quiet. But here came the ultimate obstacle: traffic. Rows of cars scattered up York Street, side-by-side like immovable bricks. Even at this time of day, London was alive and pitted against their endeavours.

While Connor and Evan were fast, the cab was faster. It swerved to the left without warning, turning into the empty one-way lane (illegal, but it was the least of their worries) and speeding forward.

Connor stopped in his tracks so abruptly that Evan crashed into the back of him, apologising profusely while catching his breath. They were both wheezing. Keeping up with a motor engine was impossible, even for Connor Murphy.

“This isn’t working,” said Connor, and Evan was just about to say _‘obviously’_ when Connor cast his gaze around and began walking purposefully in the opposite direction to the cab.

“What are you - “ Evan began. Then, when he saw what Connor was about to do: “Oh. _Oh_.”

Because Connor had only gone and stolen a motorbike. He’d spotted one chained to a bench, probably belonging to an inhabitant of one of the numerous town houses, and had used his skeleton key to unlock it. (of _course_ Connor just happened to have a skeleton key on his person at all times.) Now he was fiddling with the ignition and hoping it would work.

It did. The engine roared to life, and in a split second Connor was gripping the handlebars and beckoning for Evan to join him.

Evan had forgotten to mention his fear of motorbikes. It wasn’t motorbikes _specifically_ \- it was more the lack of helmet, the knowledge that Connor was probably a dangerous driver, and the fact that they were chasing a murdering criminal. Also, how come there was only one motorbike and two of them?

Connor practically growled in frustration. Every second lost was a second further away from catching their killer. “Come _on_.”

Evan was frozen to the pavement. “What do you - “

Before he could finish his sentence, Connor was striding over to him, lifting him onto the back of the motorbike and getting back on himself. He threw a glance back in Evan’s direction. “Hold onto me.”

Evan was too short for the motorbike. His feet dangled terrifyingly over the road. Not to mention, the force of the engine was rattling him to the core. “Wh-where?”

“Anywhere!” And with that, Connor revved the engine mercilessly and they shot forward, flying past the cars and the houses until everything was just a fast-paced blur of speed and colour.

Evan scrambled frantically for something to hold onto, eventually burying his fists into the back of Connor’s coat, clutching the fabric like a lifeline. Which, in some ways, it was.

“There,” came Connor’s voice from in front of him, barely audible above the roar of the wind rushing past Evan’s ears. Sure enough, they were catching up with the cab fast. Evan could almost make out the number plate.

But whoever was driving the cab knew they were being tailed. They made a sharp turn onto the pavement and -

Connor slammed on the brakes, and they stopped in a cloud of dust. “They _stopped_.”

Evan had as much of a clue about what was going on as Connor did. Which was unusual; Connor was normally one step ahead, but even this seemed to have eluded him.

The cab had stopped half-on, half-off the pavement, it’s engine still running. Connor and Evan stayed on the motorbike, stalling a few feet away.

Then, a man in a denim jacket walked out of the cab. With a duffel bag - clearly a tourist - and a wallet, which he used to pay the cabbie. He walked away from the cab calmly, and didn’t look twice at the motorbike.

Evan whispered in Connor’s ear, “Aren’t you going to go after him?”

Connor shook his head sadly. “He’s not the killer. He’s clearly a tourist - he’s only been in the country for a few hours, judging by the boarding pass tagged onto his luggage. So he couldn’t have committed the murder.”

Evan’s heart sank. All this - a stolen motorbike, a wild and life-threatening chase - for this. For nothing. It felt like the biggest anticlimax, the void of air left after a storm. “So, that’s it.”

Connor didn’t answer.

Evan scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. Then he realised he was still pressed up against Connor’s shoulder blades (uncomfortably close), and hastily dismounted the bike. “What do we do with _this_?” He gestured to the stolen bike.

Connor shrugged like it was obvious. “We return it.”

And so Evan reluctantly got back on, and they rode (slowly and somewhat more safely) back to where they’d found the bike in the first place. “I can’t redo the lock,” said Connor, calmly dismounting, “but no one needs to know it was us.”

Evan found it remarkable that a man whose _job_ was aiding the police in fighting crime had the ability to be so blase about breaking the law himself. Alas.

Shit.

“Connor. Connorlookbehindyou.”

Connor whipped around, saw the policeman, and turned to Evan as if this happened all the time. “Don’t worry. It’s fine.”

“Connor, he’s _coming toward us_.”

Before Evan could comprehend what was going on, Connor pulled him in by the waist and kissed him fiercely on the lips.

Evan’s brain took a second to register what was happening. And that it was nice.

 _No_. It was _not nice_.

Connor’s lips were surprisingly soft. And they didn’t taste like Evan had expected them to: they tasted subtly sweet, like honeycomb. Not that Evan had ever imagined what Connor’s lips would taste like.

And not that he was, in any way, shape, or form, enjoying this.

He tried to pull away, but Connor’s grip on his waist tightened. It seemed to last forever, until, finally, Connor pulled away. Or, more accurately, _pushed_ him away.

Connor wiped at his lips with the back of his hand. “Ugh.”

Evan just stood there, dizzy.

The policeman walked past them as if they weren’t criminals, giving them a thumbs-up and a “Happy pride!” before turning the corner and disappearing from sight.

“I knew he’d fall for the diversion,” said Connor cheerfully, who seemed to have forgotten about the kiss as quickly as it had happened.

A _diversion_. Of course Connor hadn’t spontaneously kissed Evan because he’d wanted to. Evan felt like an idiot for even having let that idea enter his head.

“Now he’ll have no idea we stole the bike,” Connor explained calmly. “After all, we were just two guys kissing; wrong place, wrong time.”

“R-right.” Evan felt sick. It must have been the aftereffects of speeding on the back of a motorbike.

Connor turned back up the street, his coat billowing behind him like a bad omen. “Time to go home, I should think. You know, Evan,” he threw a glance back at Evan, “you’ve hardly stuttered once since yesterday. It must be the adventure. It suits you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I get a comment I store it in my dragon's lair like a treasure.


	7. Spring Cleaning

The apartment was a mess.

Instead of its usual organised chaos, this was _real_ chaos: documents lying on the floor in scrap piles, shelves and cabinets turned inside out, furniture moved. Mrs Hudson had fled who-knew-where. And, in the middle of it all…

“Alana Beck.” Connor glared at the detective inspector with as much threat as Evan had seen on some soldier’s faces on the battlefield. It was quite terrifying.

Beck had a couple of her lower level assistants methodically searching 221B Baker Street from top to bottom. Nothing, thought Evan sadly, was going untouched. He winced as one of them knocked his favourite lamp to the floor in their haste to get at the underside of the table.

“What,” said Connor, his voice dripping with poison, “do you think you’re doing?”

Alana folded her arms as if it were obvious. She enunciated each word with devastating clarity. “A drugs bust, Murphy. Think of it as Spring cleaning.”

If Connor was in any way as shocked as Evan was, he did a good job of concealing it. “Very interesting. Well, if that’s all, I should ask you to leave. You’ve outstayed my welcome, I’m afraid.”

He made a move towards one of the assistants - who was pouring the contents of Connor’s day-old tea into a test tube - when Alana stepped smartly into his path. “Not so fast.”

Connor scowled like a chided schoolboy. “Hold this,” he said absently to Evan, handing him his phone. Then he turned back to Alana. “This is against the law. I could call the police.”

“I _am_ the police,” Alana shot back.

“Fine.” Connor mirrored her position, crossing his arms in a manner that could only be described as petulant. “I’ll call Zoe.”

Alana’s eyes widened imperceptibly. “You _wouldn’t_.”

“Oh, I would.”

Evan distinctly wondered just how powerful Connor’s sister had to be to strike fear into the heart of someone like D.I. Alana Beck. He’d thought Zoe had been joking when she’d said she ran the British Government, but now he wasn’t so sure.

“Well,” Alana reasoned, still not moving from her spot in front of Connor, “it’s not as if there isn’t a very good reason for all of this.”

Connor waited in stony silence for an explanation.

“We have informants for Scotland Yard all over the city,” she began, all business. “Thirty-five minutes ago, we got an alert from one of our sources that you were out by York Street, stealing a motorbike and chasing a black cab.”

As he listened, Evan frowned. The policeman who’d passed by and said “happy pride” had _reported them_. They really couldn’t trust anyone, could they?

“I don’t know whether it was something to do with a case, or whether it was something more personal,” she continued, her formidable gaze briefly sliding over Evan, “but we can’t have you keep doing these things, Connor. If an incident like this leaks out, then it’s _my_ reputation that’s on the line. After all, I’m the one who hired you in the first place.”

 _An incident like this?_ Was this not the first time Connor had broken the law? Evan wondered.

Were there things Connor hadn’t told him?

As she finished her explanation, Alana’s voice softened, as if she were talking to a friend, and not just a colleague. She cared for Connor, Evan realised with a jolt. Behind the seemingly unbreakable exterior, she really cared. “Connor, we both know about your...history. When I heard of what you’ve been up to, my first thought was this. And I couldn’t risk you having drugs on your person. Not just for Scotland Yard. For your sake.”

The silence carried weight. While the assistants noisily busied themselves in the background, the three of them - Connor, Alana, and Evan - stared each other down. Though Evan knew that he had no part in this. Whatever history Connor and Alana had, he’d never be part of it.

Finally, it was Connor who broke the silence. “I appreciate your...concern,” he said curtly, “but I happen to ensure that my...personal life does not affect my professional life. You, Beck, are my professional life. Let that be nothing more.”

Alana nodded tensely, clearly having expected something more from him. Evan, on the other hand, was doing a sufficient job of pretending he wasn’t there.

One of the assistants, however, had no inkling that they were intruding upon a private moment. Instead, they tapped Alana on the shoulder and said, “We’ve found nothing. It’s clear.”

Only Evan noticed the slightest exhale of breath in Connor. He was relieved, then.

Alana seemed as surprised as Connor clearly felt. “Well.” With the raising of her shoulders, the business exterior was restored. “It seemed I was wrong. My apologies, though, you understand, it was necessary.”

Connor nodded with forced politeness. “Of course.”

Once Alana and her cohort had left, Connor flung himself into his chair and closed his eyes. He looked tired - Evan had never seen him tired before. Something told Evan that Connor didn’t want to talk about this. That his past was off-limits, at least for the time being.

Evan had been paying so much attention to Connor and Alana’s conversation, that he’d forgotten he was holding Connor’s phone.

Until, that is, it buzzed with a text.

Evan automatically held it up to read it. He scanned the text quickly, and when it sunk in, he nearly dropped the phone. “Connor,” he said hurriedly. Panicked. “Connor, read this.”

It was from Rachel’s number. The number they’d been tracking through London this morning.

It was from the killer.

_**I’m coming.** _

As soon as Connor had read it, he jumped to his feet, the drugs bust forgotten in a flash.

Then, footsteps.

Hollow, steady footsteps ascending the stairs to the flat. Louder, closer, which each second.

Then, a knock on the door. The tracker on the phone was beeping incessantly, warning danger.

While Evan was frozen to the spot, it was Connor who took two purposeful strides forward and slowly twisted the handle of the door.

On the other side was a cab driver. A plain, middle-aged man, with a small tag around his neck certifying his profession. For a sickening moment, the three of them all stood there, staring each other down in a stalemate. The tracker continued to beep.

“I believe you ordered a cab,” said the cab driver.

Connor inclined his head at him, expressionless. “I don’t believe we did, sir.”

Then, the strangest thing happened. The cabbie’s lips twisted into an ugly, guilty smile. “You’re right. I’m here because I killed Rachel.” There was no weight behind his words, only cold facts. “I killed all of them. And, soon,” he met Connor’s gaze with no fear, “I’m going to kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This closely follows the plot of 'A Study in Pink', but with my DEH twists. So this is going to be more unexpected than you think.


	8. The Great Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no tea! Did you miss me?

Connor was grim-faced as he slid into the passenger seat of the cab. He didn’t say a word as the cabbie pulled out of Baker Street and continued towards the unknown.

“You know,” said the cabbie conversationally, “I didn’t technically _kill_ them. What really happened was that I talked to them, and then they killed themselves.”

Connor listened to this and filed it away in his mind for later. Of greater importance to him at that moment was what was around him: the cab driver’s licence (authentic, and under the name ‘Mark Montague’), the dirty ashtray between the two seats (impulsive smoker, which wasn’t surprising given his weight), and the scrappy family photo beside the dashboard (evidently he was a family man, so why would he have turned to murder?).

Connor was making these deductions partially for the benefit of the case, and partially to distract himself from the thought of Evan. When Mark Montague knocked on the flat door and announced himself to be the murderer, Connor had agreed to go with him and play his little game, only to get to the bottom of this. But he’d come here on one condition: that Evan would stay in the flat and remain in safety.

So he’d called Alana and updated her on the situation. To his surprise and relief, she’d believed everything, and agreed to come back to the flat to ensure that Evan didn’t leave. Evan hadn’t like the idea - in fact, he’d wanted nothing more than to come with him - but Connor had to do this alone.

“What do you mean by ‘they killed themselves’?” he asked.

The cab driver chuckled darkly. “Oh, you’ll see. Because I’m going to kill you like I killed the rest of them.”

“Yes, you’ve said that already,” snapped Connor impatiently. “Now, where are going?”

“It’d ruin all the fun if I told you,” he said. “You probably won’t even recognise it, anyway. That’s what makes me such a good murderer. As a cabbie, I know London inside out. I know all the best places to hide a body.”

“I can’t dispute that,” agreed Connor, who was secretly wondering who would win in a competition of who-knows-London-better. “But why?”

Mark chuckled again, but this time he sounded more sad than anything. “No one suspects the common cabbie, do they? But you did. You’re different than the others. Smarter.”

Connor frowned. “You haven’t answered my question.”

Mark pursed his lips and continued driving, as if deciding whether or not to speak. “Well, I’m going to kill you, so there’s no harm in telling you. My whole life I’ve been treated as if I was stupid. Just because I can’t read and write very well. But when I kill them, Connor, I feel like the person I never was: smart, powerful. I feel a lot like you must feel when you solve a case.” His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he talked. “I haven’t been allowed to see my children for three years,” he said, gesturing to the family photograph. “But I want to see them again one day. And when I do, I want to live up to their expectations of a dad. I want to be capable, confident. I’ve finally found something I’m good at. Murder.”

Connor nodded to himself. It all added up. No wonder Mark had been so eager to pursue him. No wonder he wanted to kill him.

The only question that remained was _how_. How did the cab driver claim he was going to kill him?

The cab ground to a halt. It was time to find out.

“You have reached your destination,” said the killer in a mock voice, imitating a Sat Nav. He was having fun with this. “Your final destination.”

*

In the flat in Baker Street, Evan was growing increasingly frustrated. “I-I don’t understand why you won’t just let me out,” he explained to an unmoving Alana. “I’m...claustrophobic.”

Alana sat back in the chair that was usually Connor’s, her armed folded. “No you’re not.”

Evan’s brow furrowed. “How can you - “

“I can always tell when someone’s lying, Hansen. I’m a police inspector.”

 _Fair enough_. But that didn’t mean she could stop Evan from escaping. Which he was determined to do, if it meant saving his friend-colleague-thing. “Then you should know that Connor’s in danger.”

“And we’ve got our best officers on the case. The last thing Connor needs is you complicating things.”

Evan knew she was right, but that didn’t make him feel any less stung by the remark. Somehow, Evan felt a personal responsibility for Connor’s safety. He couldn’t explain why. Besides, Evan was more competent than Alana acknowledged - he was, after all, a trained army doctor. If he wanted to go after Connor, then it was his choice.

Evan was resolved on the matter: he would go after his companion, whatever it took. Connor had been right when he’d said that Evan loved the adventure - once he’d got a taste for it, he couldn’t stay away from it.

He couldn’t stay away from Connor.

Evan rose from his seat suddenly. Alana’s gaze followed him across the room as he walked towards the computer. “I’m checking my blog,” he announced.

Alana’s voice had a trace of mockery in it. “Okay, then.”

 _Ha_. He’d lied - he’d lied without her noticing. Evan positioned himself so that she couldn’t see the screen, and found the site that tracked the GPS in the murderer’s phone. Connor had taught him a few handy tricks on the computer, and this one proved to be useful.

The tracker flashed red. The map was stretched out before him invitingly. Now Evan knew where the killer was, and thus where Connor was.

He spent a few moments deciding what he’d do next. Once he’d decided, he said to Alana, “I’m going to make some tea. Do-do you want some?”

“Could I have black coffee?” Of course D.I. Alana Beck drank black coffee. Evan’s theory that the beverage matches the personality was correct.

“Of course.”

Evan went into the kitchen, and while he waited for the kettle to boil, he chose his next plan of action.

He waited.

Then he lunged for the kitchen drawer, grabbed the keys to the window and ran to it. He’d escape down the fire exit. Then he’d be able to find Connor using the GPS, and Connor would be okay -

“Stop!” Before Evan could even open the window, he felt a hand grab him by the back of his shirt and yank him backwards onto the kitchen floor.

Now, Evan’s plan had culminated in him sitting on the kitchen floor with a bruise, while Alana stood over him triumphantly. The cherry on the cake was that he was embarrassed to have even thought that he would have succeeded.

Alana offered him a hand to help him up, which he declined. She still made him slightly nervous, and Evan hadn’t ruled out the possibility that she could shoot lasers out of her hands like Iron Man or something.

Evan expected Alana to berate him, tell him that trying to escape was a stupid idea. But instead, she just looked sad. “Hand me the keys, Hansen.”

He handed her the keys.

Then, even more unexpectedly, said, “You hate me, don’t you?”

Evan glanced up at her in surprise. (Another reason he was scared of her: she was half a head taller than him.) “Wh-why would you think that?”

“Because I’m literally the only thing stopping you from going after Connor. _I_ would hate me.”

Evan was saved the awkwardness of responding by the hiss of the kettle. “Oh! The tea,” he said, and opened the cupboard for two mugs.

“Why do you think Connor called me here?” Said Alana suddenly, making Evan jump and nearly spill the hot water. “He asked me to protect you. You’re the only person Connor cares about, and I’m doing this for him. Please understand that.”

Was was taken aback by this impromptu speech. At first he didn’t respond; he just stirred the tea and coffee while mulling it over in his mind. _You’re the only person Connor cares about._ Was that true? “I...here’s your coffee.”

Alana accepted the coffee gratefully. “Ever since you came along, he’s been so different. Happier than I’ve seen him in a long time.”

“Wasn’t he happy before?” Evan blurted out, then immediately regretted what he’d said. He mentally reminded himself that it was none of his business.

“When I first took him on as a consulting detective,” began Alana, sipping her coffee, “he was in a bad way. He hardly talked to anyone - he was violent, impulsive, more often high than not. Since then, he’s got a lot better. He’s got help.” She paused, and looked down into the dregs of her coffee, her eyebrows knitted in concern. “But I still worry about him.”

Evan had forgotten all about his mug of tea - it stood cooling on the kitchen counter as he listened. He was still trying to process the information she’d given him. The new knowledge felt like something he’d stolen from Connor, something private and hidden that had been misplaced. “I - you didn’t need to - to tell me all that - “

“I wanted to.” Said Alana decisively. “It’s important for you to know, if you’re his friend. Flatmates should know the worst about each other, shouldn’t they?”

That had been exactly what Connor had said, on the day they’d first met. _Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don’t you think?_ Evan almost smiled at the memory of that eccentric stranger in the lab, with the unconventional habits and unfamiliar mannerisms. Now that man was so familiar, it was hard to imagine they’d never been strangers in the first place.

“Th-thank you, then,” said Evan in earnest, “for telling me.”

Before Alana could respond, an almighty crash came from the living room. She snapped back into action and drew her revolver from her belt, advancing towards the door.

She was too late. The door had already been kicked in by a masked figure - a masked figure who knocked her out in one punch.

Evan was still standing in the kitchen.

The figure started towards him, removing their mask.

"Zoe," said Evan in relief, mixed with anxiety. "I hope you haven't badly hurt her."

Zoe shrugged. "She should come round in a couple of hours. Now let's go."

Alana had been tricked - when Evan had been on the computer, he hadn't only been checking the GPS coordinates of the murderer, but he'd sent an emergency call to Connor's sister, telling her to come quick. He'd had his doubts as to whether she'd actually come, but here she was. And now they were going to rescue Connor.

"I know where we need to go," said Evan.

Zoe smirked, and handed him her car keys. "Lead the way, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I had a whole lot of fun writing this one yeehaw


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